Cry Of Monsters.

Chapter One

It all started when he woke up - again. He'd been drifting in and out for days on days until finally, he stayed in a state of somewhat consciousness that could be considered awake, and he'd never felt worse. His body ached in a way he never thought it could, throbbing that was dull, but shook him to the core. He felt violently ill, he dry heaved for a second or two before swallowing uncomfortably. The lights hurt his eyes, his head felt like a pile of bricks had crushed him. His throat was dry and scratchy, but he could remember nothing.

Apparently, he was in a hospital. Everything was white, and it hurt his mind, but then again, what part of him didn't hurt. He couldn't speak, certainly couldn't bear to listen to whatever the man in the white coat towering over him had to say. Fuck him, he thought, he just needed a smoke. There was also another... Clawing feeling at the back of his mind. Something he couldn't quite place his finger on. It felt like something was missing, it made him anxious, and sort of... Hysterical. His hands were cold and clammy as he gripped the sheets, his mind drifting in and out, hearing fuzzy like someone had shoved cotton in his ears. The man talked and talked, with no signs of stopping or pausing for breath. It made his mind race. He tried to speak, but nothing came out. Instead, he lifted a hand, a signal - or moreso, a plea, to stop. The man in white, presumably a doctor, stopped, nodding firmly with pursed lips, and left without another word. He just needed some time to think, recollect his thoughts. He ran his hands over his face and his muscles felt stiff, almost as if he hadn't moved in many weeks. He supposed he'd been comatose for a while. The callused tips of his fingers touch his face, colliding with stubble and sweat slicked skin. His fingertips find a scar, about an inch in diameter along the skin under his left eye socket. He traced the dipped skin, over and over like a wordless mantra. It was oddly smooth, straight cut and painless. He was mesmerized by the intrusion on his face, and attempted to stand to find a mirror, or something he could look into the see the state of his face. His knuckles whiten as he griped the railing on the side of his bed, his knees weak and trembling. His body shook tremendously as it struggled to accommodate his weight, he grunts as he leans on the wall to inch his way towards the dresser only a few meters away. He had just managed to shuffle his way over to inspect the split in his skin, when the door opened.

Before he could process it, he was ushered back into bed by two more men in white. He tensed up, thrashing around as they held him down. An intense pain shot through his veins and he suddenly felt tired, it's so painful he stops moving, breathing heavily as hot tears streamed down his face. The doctor enters the room, voice cool and calm as he utters something unheard. He grabs the gist of it though, don't move or the pain will get worse. He's sobbing and shaking as the tremors rack his body, and he can no longer control himself. He vomits through the sudden wash of nausea, it's just bile that burn the back of his throat. The pain, which he now recognises had stemmed from his stomach outward, lessened, and he whimpered as the fluids soaked his clothes - if you could call them that.  His hospital gown sticks to his torso as he's moved out of the room, eyes drooping closed. The prick of the needle was but a momentary pain, but the results were almost instant. He loses consciousness as if with the snap of fingers.

Everything after that was a blur, a flash of lights as he's moved like cargo down the halls, he remembers waking up several times but nothing much stuck.

He wakes once more in a new white room, two grey doors being the only things adorning the walls. His vision was fuzzy as he faded in and out until the lights dimmed, and all was dark.